Page 83 of Employing Patience

I flinch as the memory comes back to me. Trying to impress those guys had ended up with me locked in my room for the rest of the night. My parents didn’t like me drawing attention to them.

“Great memory,” I say dryly.

“I think it stuck with me so much because I heard my mom say that if you got your own presents, you wouldn’t have been tempted by them. I’d never even thought of that. Everyone gets presents at Christmas. The idea that someone might not …”

This sinking feeling of helplessness falls over me. I didn’t know that people knew about that. That they’d gone around pitying me before I’d been old enough to take my sisters and leave. As a small kid, you think your parents have it all figured out. You trust them and think they’re the greatest.

The real loss of childhood innocence is figuring out all that’s a lie.

“I don’t think we’re pillow talking right,” I say.

Art laughs. “Maybe, but that moment had a pretty big impact on me. Later that week, I snuck treats into those older kids’ pockets at Freddy’s, and when he caught them, he made them all stand there as he called their parents. I watched from the same aisle you used to spy on me.”

Art did what? I’m struggling to find words as it sinks in that even before we knew each other, Art was protecting me. His heart is too big. Too good.

“You’re incredible,” I say, letting out too much all over again. I clear my throat. “Tell me about your parents. Were they from Portugal?”

An affectionate smile lifts one corner of his lips. “My grandparents were. They came to Boston, hated how busy it was there, and moved further and further out until they hit Kilborough. It was really small, not like it is today. Mostly people running farms or working at the prison. Mom’s parents lived in Portugal their whole lives, but they sent Mom here for college. She and Dad met … and here I am.”

“And thank fuck for all that.”

“Hear, hear.”

He chuckles, and we fall into a thoughtful silence. The love that fills his voice when he talks about family makes it so hard to believe he doesn’t want that for himself. If he says he doesn’t, then I believe him, but all of his love going to waste feels like a crime.

“You really don’t want to get married again?”

I expect him to deny it immediately, like he does with his friends, so his hesitation feels bigger than it is. “No. I don’t think so. All I know is that I wish I never had to begin with because getting married is the kind of thing you do with a one-of-a-kind type of person.” He looks like he wants to say more, so I’m surprised when he asks, “What about you?”

“I don’t think about it.”

“Why?”

“Because life is shit and hard enough as it is, without adding another pressure on top of it.”

“Isn’t marriage supposed to be about finding a partner though?”

“Is it?”

“That’s what it seems like with my parents.”

“Well, either they were the lucky ones, or people suck at finding their partner. Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce and all that.”

“Ah.” He grins. “So what you’re telling me is that because I’ve done it once and failed, the odds are in my favor.”

“Something like that.” I eye him. “But last I checked, you have to actually date someone and get to know them before you start a shared life. Since that’s something you’ll never do …”

I’m fishing for information, trying to push him into giving me the tiniest bit of hope. Just a glimpse. Just something to show me that he’s open to the idea.

“Damn.” Art pretends to grimace. “I guess I’ll have to be content weighing the odds in someone else’s favor.”

Not the answer I was looking for.

And it’s my fault for constantly wanting more than Art. He’s never hinted at a desire to settle down—he’s actually done the complete opposite. He’s made it clear, right from the start, that he’s not down for that kind of fairy-tale ending.

Which should be a good thing because I wasn’t lying when I said it sounds like a lot of work.

Only when it comes to Art, he makes me want to put in the effort.

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